


Inner Circle

by shieraseastar03



Series: ACOMAF [4]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Illyrian Camps, Illyrians, Inner Dialogue, Mating Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shieraseastar03/pseuds/shieraseastar03





	Inner Circle

“I promise I won’t drop you” he purred before opening his wings and flying into the bright night.

 

“When I was a boy” Rhys said in her ear, “I’d sneak out of the House of Wind by leaping out my window, and I’d fly and fly all night, just making loops around the city, the river, the sea. Sometimes I still do”. “Your parents must have been thrilled” she spoke with a smirk.

 

“My father never knew, and my mother...”. A pause. “She was Illyrian. Some nights, when she caught me right as I leaped out the window, she’d scold me... and then jump out herself to fly with me until dawn”. “She sounds lovely” Shiera whispered. “She was” he muttered and those two words told her enough about his past that she didn’t pry.

 

A maneuver had them rising higher, until they were in direct line with a broad balcony, gilded by the light of golden lanterns. At the far end, built into the red mountain itself, two glass doors were already open, revealing a large, but surprisingly casual dining room carved from the stone, and accented with rich wood. Each chair fashioned, the princess noted, to accomodate wings.

 

Rhys’s landing was as smooth as his takeoff, though he kept an arm beneath her shoulders as her knees buckled at the adjustment. She shook off his touch, and faced the city behind them.

 

The sprawl of the city, the vast expanse of dark beyond, the sea... Maybe she remained a human fool to feel that way, but she  had not realized the size of the world. The size of Prythian, if a city this large could remain hidden from Amarantha, from the other Courts.

 

Rhysand was silent beside Shiera. Yet after a moment, he said “Out with it”. She turned and  lifted a brow. “You say what’s on your mind, one thing. And I’ll say one, too”. She shook her head and turned back to the city but Rhys said “I’m thinking that I spent fifty years locked Under the Mountain, and I’d sometimes let myself dream of this place, but I never expected to see it again. I’m thinking that I wish I had been the one who slaughtered her. I’m thinking that if war comes, it might be a long while yet before I get to have a night like this”.

 

He slid his eyes to her, expectant. “Do you think war will be here that soon?” she asked quietly. “This was a no-questions-asked invitation. I told you three things. Tell me one”.

 

She stared toward the open world, the city and the restless sea and the dry winter night.

Maybe it was some shred of courage, or recklessness, or she  was so high above everything that no one save Rhys and the wind could hear, but she muttered “I’m thinking that this city is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. I’m thinking that everyone is wrong about this city and I understand why but I wish… I wish I had came here before instead of being locked in the Spring Manor”.

 

The words became choked. Shiera shook her head as if she could clear the remaining ones away but she still spoke them. “I’m thinking that… That I don’t want a war. I have never been or even seen a war and I am not ready to face a war. I’m thinking…”, she took a deep breath as she touched her wedding ring, “I’m thinking that so many people has been murdered in the name of freedom, in the name of Prythian and... I don’t want anyone else to die. This country has been finally freed after fifty years and I don’t want to see it destroyed by a war”.

 

Rhysand stayed quiet for a long moment, processing every word. Then he approached slowly and she felt some kind of relief, feeling someone that indeed understood next to her.

 

“That was five. Looks like I owe you two thoughts” he was finally able to say but then he glanced behind them. “Later”. Because two winged males were standing in the doorway. Grinning.

 

Rhys sauntered toward his brothers, standing by the dining room doors, giving Shiera the option to stay or join. One word, he’d promised, and they could go.

 

Both of them were tall, their wings tucked in tight to powerful, muscled bodies covered in plated, dark leather that reminded her of the worn scales of some serpentine beast. Identical long swords were each strapped down the column of their spines, the blades beautiful in their simplicity. Perhaps she needn’t have bothered with the fine clothes after all.

 

The slightly larger of the two, his face masked in shadow, chuckled and said, “Come on, Shiera. We don’t bite. Unless you ask us to”. Surprise sparked through her, her cheeks turning red.

 

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets. “The last I heard, Cassian, no one has ever taken you up on that offer”. The second one snorted, the faces of both males at last illuminated as they turned toward the golden light of the dining room, and the princess honestly wondered why no one hadn’t: if Rhysand’s mother had also been illyrian, then its people were blessed with unnatural good looks.

 

Like their High Lord, the males, warriors, were dark-haired, tan-skinned. But unlike Rhys, their eyes were hazel and fixed on her as she at last stepped close, to the waiting House of Wind behind them. That was where any similarities between the three of them halted.

 

Cassian surveyed Rhys from head to foot, his shoulder-length black hair shifting with the movement. “So fancy tonight, brother. And you made poor Shiera dress up, too”. He winked at her. There was something rough-hewn about his features, like he’d been made of wind and earth and flame and all these civilized trappings were little more than an inconvenience.

 

But the second male, the more classically beautiful of the two... Even the light shied from the elegant planes of his face. With good reason. Beautiful, but near-unreadable. He’d be the one to look out for, the knife in the dark. Indeed, an obsidian-hilted hunting knife was sheathed at his thigh, its dark scabbard embossed with a line of silver runes she had never seen before.

 

Rhys said, “This is Azriel, my spymaster”. Not surprising. Some buried instinct had her checking that her mental shields were intact. Just in case. “Welcome” was all Azriel said, his voice low, almost flat, as he extended a brutally scarred hand to her. The shape of it was normal, but the skin... It looked like it had been swirled and smudged and rippled. Burns. They must have been horrific if even their immortal blood had not been able to heal them.

 

Azriel’s brows flicked up with approval as the shadows seemed to wrap tighter around him. As if he were the dark hive from which they flew and returned. Shiera tried not to shudder and faced Rhys, hoping for an explanation about his spymaster’s dark gifts but as he kept quiet she continued looking at the illyrian. The leather plates of his light armor flowed over most of it, held by a loop around his middle finger. Not to conceal, she realized as his hand breached the chill night air between them. No, it was to hold in place the large, depthless cobalt stone that graced the back of the gauntlet. A matching one lay atop his left hand; and twin red stones adorned Cassian’s gauntlets, their color like the slumbering heart of a flame.

 

Shiera took Azriel’s hand, and his rough fingers squeezed hers. His skin was as cold as his face.

 

But the word Cassian had used a moment ago snagged her attention as she released his hand and tried not to look too eager to step back to Rhys’s side. “You’re brothers?”. The illyrians looked similar, but only in the way that people who had come from the same place did.

 

Rhysand clarified, “Brothers in the sense that all bastards are brothers of a sort”. “And you?” she asked Cassian. He shrugged, wings tucking in tighter. “I command Rhys’ armies”.

 

The males stared at her for a moment. Shiera was beautiful, that was the perfect word for her. Even with her thinness and her nervousness she was beautiful. She was wearing a beautiful black and purple dress, the skirt loose and dancing with the wind that entered through the opened door and her bodice lifted her big boobs. Mother above... How such a young girl could have those breasts?

 

Their gazed went then to the silver ring on her finger. They almost had forgotten that she had been married. With only fifteen years she had got married and with sixteen her husband had been murdered.

 

The princess noticed her glances and her fingers touched her ring as she shifted on her feet. Cassian’s hazel eyes tracked the movement, his mouth twitching to the side, and she honestly thought he was about to give me his professional opinion on how doing so would make her unsteady against an opponent when Azriel clarified, “Cassian also excels at pissing everyone off. Especially amongst our friends. So, as a friend of Rhysand... Good luck”.

 

A friend of Rhysand, not savior of their land, not Tarquin’s widow, not Tamlin’s runaway bride, not human-faerie-thing. Maybe they didn’t know...

 

Her thoughts evaporated when another male approached but this one was even more similar to Rhysand than Cassian or Azriel. He had the illyrian wings they all shared but his face seemed like he was related to the High Lord in some way although instead of violet eyes he had them of a powerful blue.

 

Cauldron, she was so young… He had seen her from the balcony but in person… The princess was short, maybe she was as tall as Amren. She seemed so young and she was so thin and so pale… He couldn’t believe that the young female by his father’s side was the one who had beaten the Wyrm. Now he understood why his father couldn’t believe that Shiera, that beautiful and young princess was his mate.

 

He got near as he noticed her green eyes on him, his uncles and his father watching him before he extended a hand and introduced himself.

 

“Alec, Prince of Velaris”. She shook her hand nervously. “Prince?” she repeated, surprised. A nod. “But how can you be a prince? Are you related?” she asked, turning her head to look at Rhysand. “You both look similar. Is he your son?”.

 

The hearts of the illyrians stopped suddenly. They all exchanged astonished glances. All their bets… And after all she had figured out after one moment of meeting him.

 

“No, no” Alec managed to let out, “We… We are related but I am more like… like a nephew”. His father gave him a grateful and relieved glance as Shiera nodded in understanding and before anyone could say anything else a female appeared.

 

Her bright hair was freed in a waterfall of golden waves, and the red of her clothes, fashioned like Shiera’s, offset her sun-kissed skin, making her practically glow in the night light.

 

The illyrians turned toward her, Cassian bracing his feet slightly farther apart on the floor in a fighting stance Shiera knew all too well. It was almost enough to distract her from noticing Azriel as those shadows lightened, and his gaze slid over the female’s body: a red, flowing gown of chiffon accented with gold cuffs, and combs fashioned like gilded leaves swept back the waves of her unbound hair. A wisp of shadow curled around Azriel’s ear, and his eyes snapped to Shiera’s. She schooled her face into bland innocence.

 

“Hello, hello” she chirped, her full lips parting in a dazzling smile as her rich brown eyes fixed on her. “Shiera darling” Rhys said smoothly, “meet my cousin, Morrigan. Mor, meet the lovely, charming, and open-minded Princess of Adriata”. The princess debated splashing punching him, but Mor strode toward her. Each step was assured and steady, graceful, and... grounded.

Merry but alert. Someone who didn’t need weapons, or at least bother to sheath them at her side.

 

“I’ve heard so much about you” she said, making Rhys wanting to do a facepalm. Mor  grabbed Shiera into a bone-crushing hug. She smelled like citrus and cinnamon. The princess tried to relax her taut muscles as she pulled away and tried to smile fiendishly.

 

“It’s… nice to meet you” she spoke nervously. “Liar. You want nothing to do with us, do you? And wicked Rhys is making you having dinner here”. “You’re... perky today, Mor” Rhys said. Mor’s stunning eyes lifted to her cousin’s face. “Forgive me for being excited about having company for once”.

 

Shiera stared for a moment at Rhys’ family and friends.“I… I don’t understand. You are related and you are so similar, and okay, that makes sense but you…” she said looking at Mor, “You two look nothing alike” she said at last.

 

“Mor is my cousin in the loosest definition” he said and she grinned at him. “But we were raised together”.

 

“I don’t know why I ever forget you are related” Cassian told Mor, jerking his chin at Alec, then Rhys, who rolled his eyes. “You three and your clothes”.  Mor sketched a bow to Cassian. Indeed, the princess tried not to slump with relief at the sight of the fine clothes. At least I wouldn’t look overdressed now.

 

“I wanted to impress Shiera. You could have at least bothered to comb your hair”. “Unlike some people” Cassian said, proving Shiera’s suspicions correct about that fighting stance, “I

have better things to do with my time than sit in front of the mirror for hours”. “Yes” Mor said, tossing her long hair over a shoulder, “since swaggering around Velaris...”.

 

“We have company” was Azriel’s soft warning, wings again spreading a bit as he herded them through the open balcony doors to the dining room. Shiera could have sworn tendrils of darkness swirled in their wake. Mor patted Azriel on the shoulder as she dodged his outstretched wing. “Relax, Az. No fighting tonight. We promised Rhys”. The lurking shadows vanished entirely as Azriel’s head dipped a bit, his night-dark hair sliding over his handsome face as if to shield him from that mercilessly beautiful grin.

 

Mor gave no indication that she noticed and curved her fingers toward the green-eyed Princess of Adriata and gave her a big smile. “Come sit with me while they drink”. Seing the warmth in her brown eyes, she obeyed, falling into step beside her as the three illyrians drifted back to walk the few steps with their High Lord. “Unless you’d rather drink” Mor offered as we entered the warmth and red stone of the dining room. “But I want you to myself before Amren hogs you...”.

 

The interior dining room doors opened on a whispering wind, revealing the shadowed, crimson halls of the mountain beyond. And maybe part of me remained mortal, because even though the short, delicate woman looked like High Fae... as Rhys had warned Shiera, every instinct was roaring to run. To hide.

 

She was several inches shorter than everyone else, just as Shiera herself, her chin-length black hair glossy and straight, her skin tan and smooth, and her face… pretty, bordering on plain, was bored, if not mildly irritated. But Amren’s eyes… Her silver eyes were unlike anything the princess had ever seen; a glimpse into the creature that she knew in her bones wasn’t High Fae. Or hadn’t been born that way.

 

The silver in Amren’s eyes seemed to swirl like smoke under glass.

 

She wore pants and a top like those Shiera had worn at the other mountain-palace, both in shades of pewter and storm cloud, and pearls, white, gray and black, adorned her ears, fingers, and wrists.

 

Even the High Lord at her side felt like a wisp of shadow compared to the power thrumming from her. Mor groaned, slumping into a chair near the end of the table, and poured herself a glass of wine. Cassian took a seat across from her, wiggling his fingers for the wine bottle. But Rhysand, Alec and Azriel just stood there, watching, maybe monitoring, as the female approached the green-eyed female, then halted three feet away.

 

“Your taste remains excellent, High Lord. Thank you”. Her voice was soft but honed sharper than any blade Shiera had encountered. Her slim, small fingers grazed a delicate silver-and-pearl brooch pinned above her right breast. So that’s who he’d bought the jewelry for. The jewelry Shiera was to never, under any circumstances, try to steal.

 

She studied Rhys and Amren, as if she might be able to read what further bond lay between them, but Rhysand waved a hand and bowed his head. “It suits you, Amren”. “Everything suits me” she said, and those horrible, enchanting eyes again met Shiera’s own. Like leashed lightning. She took a step closer, sniffing delicately, and though the princess stood half a foot taller, she had never felt meeker.

 

Amren finnally spoke looking at those bewitching green eyes, “So there are two of us now”. Shiera’s brows nudged toward each other. Amren’s lips were a slash of red. “We who were born something else and found ourselves trapped in new, strange bodies.”

 

Amren jerked her chin at the princess to sit in the empty chair beside Mor, her hair shifting like molten night. She claimed the seat across from Shiera, Alec on her other side as Rhys took the one across from him, on Shiera’s right. No one at the head of the table.

 

“Though there is a third” Amren said, now looking at Rhysand. “I don’t think you’ve heard from Miryam in... centuries. Interesting”. Cassian rolled his eyes. “Please just get to the point, Amren. I’m hungry”. Mor choked on her wine. Amren slid her attention to the warrior to her right. Azriel, on her other side, monitored the two of them very, very carefully. “No one warming your bed right now, Cassian? It must be so hard to be an illyrian and have no thoughts in your head save for those about your favorite part”.

 

“You know I’m always happy to tangle in the sheets with you, Amren” Cassian said, utterly unfaze by the silver eyes, the power radiating from her every pore. “I know how much you enjoy illyrian...”.

 

“Miryam” Rhysand said, feeling how Shiera seemed even more nervous and overwhelmed as Amren’s smile became serpentine, “and Drakon are doing well, as far as I’ve heard. And what, exactly, is interesting?”.

 

Amren’s head tilted to the side as she studied the Princess of Adriata. She tried not to shrink from it. “Only once before was a human Made into an immortal. Interesting that it should happen again right as all the ancient players have returned. But Miryam was gifted long life, not a new body. And you, girl….”. She sniffed again, and Shiera had never felt so laid bare. Surprise lit Amren’s eyes. Rhys just nodded, confirming it as the others imitated Amren in a discreet way, noticing the scent that was filling the air. The mating bond between their High Lord and the young princess.

 

“Your very blood, your veins, your bones were Made. A mortal soul in an immortal body” Amren continued.

 

“I’m hungry” Mor complained, nudging Shiera with a thigh. She snapped a finger, and plates piled high with roast chicken, greens, and bread appeared. Simple, but... elegant. Not formal at all. Perhaps the sweater and pants wouldn’t have been out of place for such a meal.

 

“Amren and Rhys can talk all night and bore us to tears, so don’t bother waiting for them to dig in”. She picked up her fork, clicking her tongue. “I asked Rhys if I could take you to dinner, just the two of us, and he said you wouldn’t want to. But honestly, would you rather spend time with those two ancient bores, or me?”.

 

“For someone who is the same age as me” Rhys drawled, “you seem to forget...”. “Everyone wants to talk-talk-talk” Mor said, giving a warning glare at Cassian, who had indeed opened his mouth. “Can’t we eat-eat-eat, and then talk?”.

 

An interesting balance between Rhys’s terrifying Second and his disarmingly chipper Third. If Mor’s rank was higher than that of the two warriors at this table, then there had to be some other reason beyond that irreverent charm. Some power to allow her to get into the fight with Amren that Rhys had mentioned and walk away from it.

 

Azriel chuckled softly at Mor, but picked up his fork. Shiera followed suit, waiting until he’d taken a bite before doing so. Just in case.

 

Good. So good. And the wine… She hadn’t even realized Mor had poured her a glass until she finished her first sip, and she clinked her own against Shiera’s. “Don’t let these old busybodies boss you around”.  Cassian said then “Pot. Kettle. Black”. Then he frowned at Amren, who had hardly touched her plate. “I always forget how bizarre that is.” He unceremoniously took her plate, dumping half the contents on his own before passing the rest to Azriel.

Azriel said to Amren as he slid the food onto his plate, “I keep telling him to ask before he does that”. Amren flicked her fingers and the empty plate vanished from Azriel’s scarred hands. “If you haven’t been able to train him after all these centuries, boy, I don’t think you’ll make any progress now”. She straightened the silverware on the vacant place setting before her.

 

“You don’t… eat?” Shiera asked quietly to her. The first words she had spoken since sitting. Amren’s teeth were unnervingly white. “Not this sort of food”. “Cauldron boil me” Mor said, gulping from her wine. “Can we not?”. Rhys chuckled from Shiera’s other side. “Remind me to have family dinners more often”.

 

Family dinners, not official court gatherings. And tonight... either they didn’t know that Shiera was here to decide if she truly wished to work with Rhys, or they didn’t feel like pretending to be anything but what they were. They’d no doubt worn whatever they felt like, she had the rising feeling that she could have shown up in her nightgown and they wouldn’t have cared. A unique group indeed. And against Hybern... who would they be, what could they do, as allies or opponents?

 

Across from her, a cocoon of silence seemed to pulse around Azriel, even as the others dug into their food. Shiera again peered at that oval of blue stone on his gauntlet as he sipped from his glass of wine. Azriel noted the look, swift as it had been, as she had a feeling he’d been noticing and cataloging all of her movements, words, and breaths. He held up his hands, the backs to me so both jewels were on full display. “They’re called Siphons. They concentrate and focus our power in battle” he explained.

 

Only he and Cassian wore them.

 

Rhys set down his fork, and clarified for her, “The power of stronger Illyrians tends toward ‘incinerate now, ask questions later.’ They have little magical gifts beyond that, the killing power”. “The gift of a violent, warmongering people” Amren added. Azriel nodded, shadows wreathing his neck, his wrists. Cassian gave him a sharp look, face tightening, but Azriel ignored him.

 

Rhys went on, though Shiera knew he was aware of every glance between the spymaster and army commander, “The Illyrians bred the power to give them advantage in battle, yes. The Siphons filter that raw power and allow Cassian and Azriel to transform it into something more subtle and varied, into shields and weapons, arrows and spears. Imagine the difference between hurling a bucket of paint against the wall and using a brush. The Siphons allow for the magic to be nimble, precise on the battlefield when its natural state lends itself toward something far messier and unrefined, and potentially dangerous when you’re fighting in tight quarters”.

 

Shiera stared at the Siphons and wondered how much of that any of them had needed to do. If those scars on Azriel’s hands had come from it.

 

Cassian flexed his fingers, admiring the clear red stones adorning the backs of his own broad hands. “Doesn’t hurt that they also look damn good”. “Illyrians” Amren muttered.

Cassian bared his teeth in feral amusement, and took a drink of his wine.

 

Get to know them, try to envision how the princess might work with them, rely on them, if this conflict with Hybern exploded... She scrambled for something to ask and said to Azriel, those shadows gone again, “How did you… I mean, how do you and Lord Cassian...”.

 

Cassian spewed his wine across the table, causing Mor to leap up, swearing at him as she used a napkin to mop her dress. But Cassian was howling, and Azriel had a faint, wary smile on his face as Mor waved a hand at her dress and the spots of wine appeared on Cassian’s fighting or perhaps flying, Shiera realized, leathers.

 

Rhys had also choked with his wine and was now laughing with Cassian as all of them saw their broken High Lord laughing from the first time in three whole months.

 

Shiera’s cheeks heated. Some Court protocol that she had unknowingly broken and…

 

“Cassian” Rhys drawled, “is not a lord. Though I’m sure he appreciates you thinking he is”. He surveyed his Inner Circle. “While we’re on the subject, neither is Azriel. Nor Amren. Mor, believe it or not, is the only pure-blooded, titled person in this room”.

 

Not him? Rhys must have seen the question on her face because he said “I’m half-illyrian. As good as a bastard where the thoroughbred High Fae are concerned”.

 

“So you… you four aren’t High Fae?” Shiera said to him and the three males. Cassian finished his laughing. “Illyrians are certainly not High Fae. And glad of it”. He hooked his

black hair behind an ear, rounded; as Shiera’s had once been. “And we’re not lesser faeries, though some try to call us that. We’re just… illyrians. Considered expendible aerial cavalry for the Night Court at the best of times, mindless soldier grunts at the worst”. “Which is most of the time” Azriel clarified.

 

“So… You are half-illyrian” Shiera repeated looking at Rhysand, “You are High Fae”, a glance towards Mor, “You are illyrian” she looked at Cassian and Azriel, “But you?” she let out as her eyes met Alec’s, “You have illyrian wings but fae ears… Like you” she remarked turning to Rhys. “Are you faes with illyrian relatives or…”. “Indeed” Alec let out, “We have… Illyrian ancestry”. The High Lord nodded, relieved as Shiera did too, which meant that she wouldn't ask again about their relation.

 

“How did you meet?” she asked to the illyrians. A harmless question to feel them out, learn who they were. Wasn’t it?

 

Azriel merely turned to Cassian, a silent request that he tell the story instead, and a grin ghosted across his face. “We all hated each other at first. We are bastards, you know. Az and I. The illyrians... We love our people, and our traditions, but they dwell in clans and camps deep in the mountains of the North, and do not like outsiders. Especially High Fae who try to tell them what to do. But they’re just as obsessed with lineage, and have their own princes and lords among them. Az” he said, pointing a thumb in his direction, his red Siphon catching the light, “was the bastard of one of the local lords. And if you think the bastard son of a lord is hated, then you can’t imagine how hated the bastard is of a war-camp laundress and a warrior she couldn’t or wouldn’t remember”.

 

His casual shrug didn’t match the vicious glint in his hazel eyes. “Az’s father sent him to our camp for training once he and his charming wife realized he was a shadowsinger.”

 

Shadowsinger. Yes, the title, whatever it meant, seemed to fit.

 

“Like the daemati” Rhys said to her, “shadowsingers are rare, coveted by Courts and territories across the world for their stealth and predisposition to hear and feel things others can’t”. Perhaps those shadows were indeed whispering to him, then. Azriel’s cold face yielded nothing.

 

Cassian said “The camp lord practically shit himself with excitement the day Az was dumped in our camp. But me... once my mother weaned me and I was able to walk, they flew me to a distant camp, and chucked me into the mud to see if I would live or die”. “They would have been smarter throwing you off a cliff” Mor said, snorting.

 

“Oh, definitely” Cassian said, that grin going razor-sharp. “Especially because when I was old and strong enough to go back to the camp I’d been born in, I learned those pricks worked my mother until she died”.

 

A silence fell, the tension and simmering anger of a unit who had endured so much, survived so much ... and felt each other’s pain keenly.

 

He had been separated from his mother, forced to train and when he had came back… He had found out that his mother was dead. Shiera didn’t knew how old he had been but from the look in those hazel eyes she knew that the hole in the commander’s heart was an unhealed wound.

 

“The Illyrians are unparalleled warriors, and are rich with stories and traditions. But they are also brutal and backward, particularly in regard to how they treat their females” Rhys added smoothly. Azriel’s eyes had gone near-vacant as he stared at the wall of windows behind Shiera. “They’re barbarians” Amren remarked, and neither illyrian male objected. Mor nodded emphatically, even as she noted Azriel’s posture and bit her lip. “They cripple their females so they can keep them for breeding more flawless warriors”.

 

Rhys cringed. “My mother was low-born” he told the princess, “and worked as a seamstress in one of their many mountain war-camps. When females come of age in the camps, when they have their first bleeding, their wings are... clipped. Just an incision in the right place, left to improperly heal, can cripple you forever. And my mother… she was gentle and wild and loved to fly. So she did everything in her power to keep herself from maturing. She starved herself, gathered illegal herbs… Anything to halt the natural course of her body. She turned eighteen and hadn’t yet bled, to the mortification of her parents. But her bleeding finally arrived, and all it took was for her to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, before a male scented it on her and told the camp’s lord. She tried to flee, took right to the skies. But she was young, and the warriors were faster, and they dragged her back. They were about to tie her to the posts in the center of camp when my father winnowed in for a meeting with the

camp’s lord about readying for the War. He saw my mother thrashing and fighting like a wildcat, and...”. He swallowed, nervous. “The mating bond between them clicked into place. One look at her, and he knew what she was” he spoke meeting those bright green eyes as everyone held their breath.

 

“Mating bond? What’s that?” Shiera suddenly let out and Mor lifted a golden brow. “No one has told you about it before?”. The princess shook her head, ashamed. “A mating bond is a union between two souls, bounding them together, forever”. “Like… Like a marriage?” she asked and Mor noticed how she touched the silver ring on her hand.

 

“High Fae mostly marry” Amren explained, “But if they’re blessed, they’ll find their mate, their equal, their match in every way. High Fae wed without the mating bond, but if you find your mate, the bond is so deep that marriage is... insignificant in comparison”.

 

“So… Your father felt the bond and... “ Shiera spoke, wanting to hear the story. “And he misted the guards holding her”. Her brows narrowed. “Misted?”. Cassian let out a wicked chuckle as Rhys floated a lemon wedge that had been garnishing his chicken into the air above the table. With a flick of his finger, it turned to citrus-scented mist and the princess lifted her brows, astounded.

 

“Through the blood-rain” Rhys went on, “my mother looked at him and the bond fell into place for her. My father took her back to the Night Court that evening and made her his bride. She loved her people, and missed them, but never forgot what they had tried to do to her, what they did to the females among them. She tried for decades to get my father to ban it, but the War was coming, and he wouldn’t risk isolating the Illyrians when he needed them to lead his armies. And to die for him”.

 

“A real prize, your father” Mor grumbled. “At least he liked you” Rhys countered, then clarified for Shiera, “my father and mother, despite being mates, were wrong for each other. My father was cold and calculating, and could be vicious, as he had been trained to be since birth. My mother was soft and fiery and beloved by everyone she met. She hated him after a time, but never stopped being grateful that he had saved her wings, that he allowed her to fly whenever and wherever she wished. And when I was born, and could summon the illyrian wings as I pleased... She wanted me to know her people’s culture”.

 

“She wanted to keep you out of your father’s claws” Mor said, swirling her wine, her shoulders loosening as Azriel at last blinked, and seemed to shake off whatever memory had frozen him. “That, too” Rhys added drily. “When I turned eight, my mother brought me to one of the Illyrian war-camps. To be trained, as all illyrian males were trained. And like all illyrian mothers, she shoved me toward the sparring ring on the first day, and walked away without looking back”.

“She abandoned you?” Shiera let out with her brows raised again. “No. Never” Rhys said with a ferocity she had heard only a few times. “She was staying at the camp as well. But it is considered an embarrassment for a mother to coddle her son when he goes to train. I was scared out of my mind” Rhys admitted, not a shade of shame to be found. “I’d been learning to wield my powers, but illyrian magic was a mere fraction of it. And it’s rare amongst them, usually possessed only by the most powerful, pure-bred warriors”.

 

Again, Shiera looked at the slumbering Siphons atop the warriors’ hands. “I tried to use a Siphon during those years” Rhys said. “And shattered about a dozen before I realized it wasn’t compatible, the stones couldn’t hold it. My power flows and is honed in other ways”.

 

“So difficult, being such a powerful High Lord” Mor teased. Rhys rolled his eyes. “The camp-lord banned me from using my magic. For all our sakes. But I had no idea how to fight when I set foot into that training ring that day. The other boys in my age group knew it, too. Especially one in particular, who took a look at me, and beat me into a bloody mess”.

 

“You were so clean...” Cassian said, shaking his head. “The pretty half-breed son of the High Lord. How fancy you were in your new training clothes”. “Cassian” Azriel told the princess with that voice like darkness given sound, “resorted to getting new clothes over the years by challenging other boys to fights, with the prize being the clothes off their backs”.

 

There was no pride in the words, not for his people’s brutality. Shiera didn’t blame the shadowsinger, though. To treat anyone that way… Cassian, however, chuckled. But she was now taking in the broad, strong shoulders, the light in his eyes. She had never met anyone else in Prythian who had ever been hungry, desperate, not like she had been.

 

Cassian blinked, and the way he looked at me shifted, more assessing, more... sincere. She could have sworn she saw the words in his eyes: You know what it is like. You know the mark it leaves.

 

“I’d beaten every boy in our age group twice over already” Cassian went on. “But then Rhys arrived, in his clean clothes, and he smelled... different. Like a true opponent. So I attacked. We both got three lashings apiece for the fight”.

 

The princess flinched. She tried to shut the memories of Under the Mountain, the whip…

 

But those illyrians, hitting children… “They do worse, girl” Amren cut in, “in those camps. Three lashings is practically an encouragement to fight again. When they do something truly bad, bones are broken. Repeatedly. Over weeks”.

 

“Your mother willingly sent you into that?” the young female asked surprised. “My mother didn’t want me to rely on my power” Rhysand said. “She knew from the moment she conceived me that I’d be hunted my entire life. Where one strength failed, she wanted others to save me. My education was another weapon, which was why she went with me: to tutor me after lessons were done for the day. And when she took me home that first night to our new house at the edge of the camp, she made me read by the window. It was there that I saw Cassian trudging through the mud, toward the few ramshackle tents outside of the camp. I asked her where he was going, and she told me that bastards are given nothing: they find their own shelter, own food. If they survive and get picked to be in a war-band, they’ll be bottom-ranking forever, but receive their own tents and supplies. But until then, he’d stay in the cold”.

 

“Those mountains” Azriel added, his face hard as ice, “offer some of the harshest conditions you can imagine”. Shiera had spent enough time in frozen woods to get it.

 

“After my lessons” Rhys went on, “my mother cleaned my lashings, and as she did, I realized for the first time what it was to be warm, and safe, and cared for. And it didn’t sit well”.

 

“Apparently not” Cassian said. “Because in the dead of night, that little prick woke me up in my piss-poor tent and told me to keep my mouth shut and come with him. And maybe the cold made me stupid, but I did. His mother was livid. But I’ll never forget the look on her beautiful face when she saw me and said, ‘There is a bathtub with hot running water. Get in it or you can go back into the cold.’ Being a smart lad, I obeyed. When I got out, she had clean nightclothes and ordered me into bed. I’d spent my life sleeping on the ground, and when I balked, she said she understood because she had felt the same once, and that it would feel as if I was being swallowed up, but the bed was mine for as long as I wanted it”.

 

“And you were friends after that?”. “No… Cauldron no” Rhysand said. “We hated each other, and only behaved because if one of us got into trouble or provoked the other, then neither of us ate that night. My mother started tutoring Cassian, but it wasn’t until Azriel arrived a year later that we decided to be allies”.

 

Cassian’s grin grew as he reached around Amren to clap his friend on the shoulder. Azriel sighed, the sound of the long-suffering. The warmest expression Shiera had seen him make.

 

“A new bastard in the camp, and an untrained shadowsinger to boot. Not to mention he couldn’t even fly thanks to...”. Mor cut in lazily, “Stay on track, Cassian”. Indeed, any warmth had vanished from Azriel’s face.

 

Cassian went on, “Rhys and I made his life a living hell, shadowsinger or no. But Rhys’s mother had known Az’s mother, and took him in. As we grew older, and the other males around us did, too, we realized everyone else hated us enough that we had better odds of survival sticking together”.

 

“Do you have any gifts?” the princess asked him. “Like them?” she jerked her chin to Azriel and Rhys. “A volatile temper doesn’t count” Alec said as Cassian opened his mouth. He gave him that grin Shiera realized likely meant trouble was coming, but said to her, “No. I don’t, not beyond a heaping pile of the killing power. Bastard-born nobody, through and through”.

 

Rhys sat forward like he’d object, but Cassian forged ahead, “Even so, the other males knew that we were different. And not because we were two bastards and a half-breed. We were stronger, faster like the Cauldron knew we’d been set apart and wanted us to find each other. Rhys’s mother saw it, too. Especially as we reached the age of maturity, and all we wanted to do was fuck and fight”.

 

“Males are horrible creatures, aren’t they?” Amren said. “Repulsive” Mor agreed, clicking her tongue.

 

“Rhys’s power grew every day and everyone, even the camp-lords, knew he could mist everyone if he felt like it. And the two of us... we weren’t far behind.” Cassian tapped his

crimson Siphon with a finger. “A bastard illyrian had never received one of these. Ever. For Az and me to both be appointed them, albeit begrudgingly, had every warrior in every camp across those mountains sizing us up. Only pure-blood pricks get Siphons, born and bred for the killing power. It still keeps them up at night, puzzling over where the hell we got it from”.

 

“Then the War came” Azriel took over. Just the way he said the words made Shiera sit up. Listen. “And Rhys’s father visited our camp to see how his son had fared after twenty years”.

 

“My father” Rhys said, swirling his wine once, twice, “saw that his son had not only started to rival him for power, but had allied himself with perhaps the two deadliest illyrian in history. He got it into his head that if we were given a legion in the War, we might very well turn it against him when we returned”.

 

And for a moment he remembered when his father told him to go to War, when he had been forced to leave Alyx’s side for years. He remembered how her blue eyes had widened in pure fear of what could happen to him.

 

Cassian snickered, making his High Lord focus again in the conversation. “So the prick separated us. He gave Rhys command of a legion of illyrians who hated him for being a half-breed, and threw me into a different legion to be a common foot soldier, even when my power outranked any of the war-leaders. Az, he kept for himself as his personal shadowsinger, mostly for spying and his dirty work. We only saw each other on battlefields for the seven years the War raged. They’d send around casualty lists amongst the illyrian , and I read each one, wondering if I’d see their names on it. But then Rhys was captured...”.

 

“That is a story for another time” Rhys said, sharply enough that Cassian lifted his brows, but nodded. Rhys’s violet eyes met Shiera’s, and she  wondered if it was true starlight that flickered so intensely in them as he spoke. “Once I became High Lord, I appointed these four to my Inner Circle, and told the rest of my father’s old court that if they had a problem with my friends, they could leave. They all did. Turns out, having a half-breed High Lord was made worse by his appointment of two females and two Illyrian bastards”.

 

Shiera’s eyes went to the Prince of Velaris in a silent question and he shrugged. “When the Inner Circle was made I wasn’t even born”.

 

“So… Before you said that you were the same age” Shiera remembered, looking now at Rhys and Mor, they nodded. “How… How old are you? If you fight in the War…”. “We all are five hundred years old but Amren and Alec” Mor explained. Shiera chocked with her wine. “Five hundred?”. “Yeah, we are a bit older than you. But Amren is much more older and in contrast, Alec is the little one here” Cassian laughed looking at his nephew with a grin and he lifted his glass to him, smirking too.

 

“What happened to the other court, then?”. Rhys shrugged, those great wings shifting with the movement. “The nobility of the Night Court fall into one of three categories: those who hated me enough that when Amarantha took over, they joined her court and later found themselves dead; those who hated me enough to try to overthrow me and faced the consequences; and those who hated me, but not enough to be stupid and have since tolerated a half-breed’s rule, especially when it so rarely interferes with their miserable lives”.

 

“Are they… Are they the ones who live beneath the mountain?”. A nod. “In the Hewn City, yes. I gave it to them, for not being fools. They’re happy to stay there, rarely leaving, ruling themselves and being as wicked as they please, for all eternity”. That was the court he must have shown Amarantha when she first arrived, and its wickedness must have pleased her enough that she modeled her own after it.

 

“The Court of Nightmares” Mor said, sucking on a tooth. “And what is this court?” Shiera asked to them. The most important question.

 

It was Cassian, eyes clear and bright as his Siphon, who said in a mere whisper “The Court of Dreams”.

 

The Court of Dreams. The dreams of a half-breed High Lord, two bastard warriors, and… a male and the two females.

 

“And you?” she said to Mor and Amren. Amren merely said “Rhys offered to make me his Second. No one had ever asked me before, so I said yes, to see what it might be like. I found I enjoyed it”.

 

Mor leaned back in her seat, Azriel now watching every movement she made with subtle, relentless focus. “I was a dreamer born into the Court of Nightmares” Mor explained. She twirled a curl around a finger, and Shiera wondered if her story might be the worst of all of them as she said simply, “So I got out”.

 

The princess kept quiet for a moment and realized that a story was missing. “And you?” she asked shyly to Alec. His blue eyes met his father before looking at his mate. “I… I was born and raised here. I had illyrian blood but my parents didn’t want me to train until I grew up more, until I was more mature”. His gaze went to his father before taking a deep breath and looking down, to his wine. “I… I lost my parents when I was eight”. Not a lie, not entirely.

 

Shiera knew it was completely impolite but before she could realize words left her mouth. “What happened?”.

 

Everyone stayed quiet as Rhys met his son’s eyes, the same that his wife, his beautiful wife have had so long ago.

 

Shiera waited for the answer but she wasn’t prepared for it. A word, a single word that had change her life forever.

 

“Amarantha”.

 

In Rhys heart a hole that he was working to heal opened again, feeling guilt on his throat as he watched his son but in a moment he felt how Shiera’s face went even paler when she heard the name and instantly her mind went to a golden balcony in front of the sea. Welcome to Adriata. Those words, those turquoise eyes… And in a moment the image shifted. Blood covering a blue and golden tunic, eyes closing forever…

 

Shiera lowered her head, her fingers touching her ring again as she felt like she had been stabbed in her heart. She noticed the sob coming but she couldn’t cry there, not in front of those people who she had just med, who had worst past than her. Like Cassian who had lost his mother and had been forced to fight or Alec, who had lost his parents with only eight years.

 

They noticed how the little color on her face was fading and then Amren spoke. “What’s your story, then?”. Shiera lifted her head slowly and met her grey gaze fixed on her.

 

“I… I wasn’t born here” she began, “And I don’t mean Prythian or even the Mortal Lands of this country. I… I came from another world, a much modern world than this but there were only mortals. I had a normal life, I… I was happy there with my parents but one day… I… I don’t know what happened, I don’t remember it but I appeared in the Mortal Lands. At winter. In the middle of the forest. I wanted to return home, to return to my world but… I didn’t know how. So I went into the woods and walked until I found a small house. There I knocked on the door and… It was very strange… The house belonged to a wealthy merchant family, with two sisters and parents who only cared about their money and social standing. The mother had died and the  father had lost his fortune three years later. He sold everything to pay off his debts, moved them into a hovel, and didn’t bother to find work while he let them slowly starve for years. But when they opened the door… I didn’t even know there but they acted, they thought that I was part of the family too, that I was like a third sister or something. So I stayed there, at least I had a bed to sleep on, even if it was cold”.

 

“However, the father didn’t work and the sisters… The oldest was… Well, is, because she is still alive, the oldest is twenty-two and the youngest twenty-one. But none of them wanted to work either or hunt. The youngest was always nice to me even if she didn’t help at all but the oldest… She is just rouble”.

 

Shiera took a breath before continuing.

 

“I turned fourteen when the last of the money ran out, along with the food. The father wouldn’t work, couldn’t, because the debtors came and shattered his leg in front of us. So I went into the forest and even if I came from a modern world where no one has hunted since centuries ago… I taught myself to hunt. And I kept us all alive, if not near starvation at times, for a whole year until…”.

 

An eye. An arrow. A door opening. Travelling and then...

 

Welcome to Adriata.

 

Silver hair, brown skin, turquoise eyes.

 

Welcome to Adriata.

 

“Until everything happened” she finished in a whisper as the brown smile of her husband faded into her memory.

 

They fell quiet again, everyone now staring at her again without knowing what to say until Cassian spoke, “You taught yourself to hunt. What about to fight?”. Shiera shook her head and Cassian braced his arms on the table. “Lucky for you, you’ve just found yourself a teacher”.

 

She opened her mouth but... Rhysand’s mother had given him an arsenal of weapons to use if the other failed. What did she have in her own beyond a good shot with a bow and brute stubbornness? And if she had this new power, these other powers…

 

She needed to heal, she needed not be weak again. She would not be dependent on anyone else. She would never have to endure the touch of the Attor as it dragged her because she was too helpless to know where and how to hit.

 

Never again.

 

But what Ianthe and Tamlin had said... “You don’t think it sends a bad message if people see me learning to fight… Using weapons?”. The moment the words were out, I realized the stupidity of them. The stupidity of what had been shoved down her throat these past few months.

 

Silence. Then Mor said with a soft venom that made me understand the High Lord’s Third had received training of her own in that Court of Nightmares, “Let me tell you two things. As someone who has perhaps been in your shoes before”. Again, that shared bond of anger, of pain throbbed between them all, save for Amren, who was giving me a look dripping with distaste.

 

“One” Mor said, “you have left the Spring Court”. Shiera tried not to let the full weight of those words sink in. “If that does not send a message, for good or bad, then your training will not, either. Two” she continued, laying her palm flat on the table, “I once lived in a place where the opinion of others mattered. It suffocated me, nearly broke me. So you’ll understand me, Shiera, when I say that I know what you feel, and I know what they tried to do to you, and that with enough courage, you can say to hell with a reputation”. Her voice gentled, and the tension between them all faded with it. “You do what you love, what you need”.

 

Mor would not tell her what to wear or not wear. She would not allow her to step aside while she spoke for her. She would not... would not do any of the things that the princess had so willingly, desperately, allowed Ianthe to do.

 

Shiera had never had a female friend before, not someone who she could trust completely.

 

Cress.

 

The name came to her mind but Cresseida… Her sister by marriage but since returning from Under the Mountain… Tarquin was dead and Shiera hadn’t been able to save him and since then… She feared that Cress could hate her.

 

But looking at Mor… Shiera couldn’t explain it, couldn’t understand it, but... she felt it. Like she could indeed go to dinner with her. Talk to her. Not that she had much of anything to offer her in return.

 

But what she’d said... what they’d all said... Yes, Rhys had been wise to bring her here. To let her decide if she could handle them, the teasing and intensity and power. If she wanted to be a part of a group who would likely push, overwhelm and maybe frighten her, but... If they were willing to stand against Hybern, after already fighting them five hundred years ago…

 

The princess met Cassian’s gaze and though his eyes danced, there was nothing amused in them. “I’ll think about it” she said quietly and through the bond in her hand, she could have sworn she felt a glimmer of pleased surprise. Shiera checked her mental shields, but they were intact. And Rhysand’s calm face revealed no hint of its origin.

So she said clearly, steadily to him, “I accept your offer, to work with you. To earn my keep. And help with Hybern in whatever way I can”-

 

“Good” Rhys simply replied. Even as the others raised their brows. Yes, they’d obviously not been told this was an interview of sorts. “Because we start tomorrow”.

 

“Wait. What?” she let out confused, looking at him. “Where? And… And what?” she sputtered. Rhys interlaced his fingers and rested them on the table, and she realized there was another point to this dinner beyond her decision as he announced to all of them, “Because the King of Hybern is indeed about to launch a war, and he wants to resurrect Jurian to do it”.

 

Jurian. The ancient warrior whose soul Amarantha had imprisoned within that hideous ring as punishment for killing her sister. The ring that contained his eye…

 

“Bullshit” Cassian spat. “There’s no way to do that”. Amren had gone still, and it was she whom Azriel was observing, marking.

 

Amarantha was just the beginning, Rhys had once told Shiera. Had he known this even then? Had those months Under the Mountain merely been a prelude to whatever hell was about to be unleashed?

 

Resurrecting the dead. What sort of unholy power…?

 

Mor groaned, “Why would the king want to resurrect Jurian? He was so odious. All he liked to do was talk about himself”. The age of these people hit me like a brick, despite all they’d told me minutes earlier. The War… They had all ... they had all fought in the War five hundred years ago.

 

“That’s what I want to find out” Rhysand said. “And how the king plans to do it”. Amren at last said, “Word will have reached him about Shiera’s Making. He knows it’s possible for some deads to be remade”.

 

Shiera shifted in her seat. She had expected brute armies, pure bloodshed. But this…

 

“All seven High Lords would have to agree to that” Alec countered. “And… And there’s not a chance it happens again” he added shyly noticing how the princess touched her silver ring again.

 

“He’ll take another route”. Alec’s eyes narrowed to slits as he faced his father. “All the slaughtering, the massacres at temples. You think it’s tied to this?”. “I know it’s tied to this. I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for certain. But Azriel confirmed that they’d raided the memorial in Sangravah three days ago. They’re looking for something, or found it”.

 

Azriel nodded in confirmation, even as Mor cast a surprised look in his direction. Azriel gave her an apologetic shrug back.

Shiera breathed, “That… that’s why the ring and the finger bone vanished after Amarantha died? For this? But who…?”. Her mouth went dry. “They never caught the Attor, did they?”.

 

Rhys found her gaze and said too quietly, “No. No, they didn’t”. The food in her stomach turned leaden. He said to Amren, “How does one take an eye and a finger bone and make it into a man again? And how it can be stopped?”.

 

Amren frowned at her untouched wine. “You already know how to find the answer. Go to the Prison. Talk to the Bone Carver”.

 

“Shit” Mor and Cassian both said. Rhys said calmly “Perhaps you would be more effective, Amren”. Shiera was grateful for the table separating them as Amren hissed “I will not set foot in the Prison, Rhysand, and you know it. So go yourself, or send one of these dogs to do it for you”. Cassian grinned, showing his white, straight teeth, perfect for biting. Amren snapped hers once in return. Azriel just shook his head. “I’ll go. The Prison sentries know me, what I am”.

 

The green-eyes young female wondered if the shadowsinger was usually the first to throw himself into danger. Mor’s fingers stilled on the stem of her wineglass, her eyes narrowing on Amren. The jewels, the red gown, all perhaps a way to downplay whatever dark power roiled in her veins.

 

“If anyone’s going to the Prison” Rhys said before Mor opened her mouth, “it’s me. And Shiera”. But Shiera just wanted to fade as she noticed her cheeks turning red, worried.

 

“What?” Mor demanded, palms now flat on the table. “He won’t talk to Rhys” Amren said to the others, “or to Azriel. Or to any of us. We’ve got nothing to offer him. But an immortal with a mortal soul...”. She stared at the princess’ chest as if she could see the heart pounding beneath. “The Bone Carver might be willing indeed to talk to her”.

 

They stared at Shiera, as if waiting for her to beg not to go, to curl up and cower. Their quick, brutal interview to see if they wanted to work with her, she supposed.

 

But the Bone Carver, the naga, the Attor, the Suriel, the Bogge, the Middengard Wyrm... It was impossible that the Prison and the Carver was worst if she went with the most powerful High Lord in history as an ally.

 

“Your choice, Shiera darlin” Rhys said casually.

 

To shirk and mourn or face some unknown horror… The choice was easy.

 

“How bad can it be?” was her response. “Bad” Alec said and none of them bothered to contradict him.


End file.
